A Factory of Butterflies
by GhostWrite123
Summary: Bonnie, a girl I don't think we go to learn enough about. So, here's a peak into her life... and the world of happy butterflies, troubled moths and terrifying wasps that is her mind. *Currently a one-shot, I might add more. Rated T for obvious reason.*


**A/N: This… is my first fan fiction. Wow. I never thought I would do this. Well, this is from the point of view of Bonnie, a character I don't think we got to know well enough at all. As you can tell, she is a tad OOC, I realize that, but I just REALLY wanted to make her eccentric. I might ad more chapters, but I'm not sure. Please, I'd really love to hear what you guys think!**

We watched the Hunger Games today. Mom sat on the couch while I sat on the floor. I hugged my knees up to my chest and stared in horror.

Our TV reception isn't great, but then again, who's is? If you think about it, it might actually be better, because you see less of everything. All the blood, _blood, __**blood. **_

I hated it tonight. I hate it always, of course, but tonight…

I cried so hard.

Tonight, the boy tribute from District Eight was killed. I knew him, too. His name was Griffin Webster.

He was in my class, up until the reaping. He said three rows back from me, and he never missed a single day of school. He always had fresh, white bakery bread instead of the horrid cubes that everyone else had, and he told me he got them because the bakers daughter was sweet on him.

And I remember when we were both twelve, during out first reaping, we both nearly had a heart attack because he was the male tribute that year. But he hadn't even had time to make it up on stage before an eighteen-year-old strode up on stage, calling out "I volunteer!".

I remember a couple of people, whispering their relief that their friend wasn't going to go into the arena. Some even patted him on the back. On girl hugged him.

But I didn't. I just stood their stone cold, and waited out the rest of the reaping. I didn't dare look at Griffin. And when I got home, I locked myself in my room and cried, _cried, __**cried. **_Then, I said a silent "thank you" to the eighteen-ear-old who volunteered. (Funny. That boy died at the Cornucopia, on the first day.)

But this year, during the reaping, when his name was called and everyone stood paralyzed, no one was there to save him. And this year, when I got home, I cried and screamed and threw pillows and kicked the walls and asked whatever higher power was up there why they had to kill Griffin Webster, and why they couldn't have at least waited until he knew that I thought he was perfect in every single way.

It was absolutely terrible, but nothing compared to the pain I felt when I saw him die.

I watched as the District Twelve tribute stuck a knife in his chest once, twice, thrice. That's when I looked away and thought about what it would be like if I was lying on the arena floor bleeding a crying and Griffin was at home watching, with his Mom and Dad consoling_ him_. Would he thank them, and cry because I was dying right in front of him? Or would he thank them, but secretly not care that I, just a nobody, was about to leave this earth?

The District Twelve boy certainly didn't seem to care that he just killed the most wonderful boy in the world.

After the Games had ended for the night, my mother gave me a monstrous hug and told me how sorry she was. It helped a little, but not enough to keep me from doing what I did next.

Once my mother went upstairs, I went into the kitchen a grabbed a knife. I looked in the small hand mirror and studied my self. My too-red hair, my too-crooked teeth, my too-big nose, my too-flat chest, my too-long arms…

No wonder Griffin didn't take notice to me.

I got angry. I got really, really angry. Angry at Griffin, for not fighting back when the District Twelve tribute attacked. Angry at the District Twelve tribute for attacking Griffin at all. Angry and the Capitol for doing this to us. And angry at Panem, for putting up with this for so long.

So I take the knife. And I cut off my hair. All of my hair. My once shoulder-blade length hair is to my shoulders.

So then I smash the mirror. And in every shard of glass, I see a piece of me, separated from the other shards, so that my reflection is cracked.

I see the anger shard, the happiness shard, the hope shard, the lust shard, and the biggest of all, the psychosis shard.

I cry. I drop the frame of the broken mirror that was in my left hand and the clump of red hair that was in my right. I drop to my knees.

I don't love Griffin. I barley knew him. What have I been saying?

My mother rushes down, most likely responding to the sound of shattering glass. She sees me and gasps.

"Bonnie!" She rushes over and puts her arm around me, watching me cry.

I'm lonely. I'm trapped. And we are all going to die.

That's when I hug my mother and decide that I'll never outgrow hugging her.


End file.
